


The Adventure Of No Man's Land (1888)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [81]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Framing Story, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Monks, Murder, Religious Content, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 11:40:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10921086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A case that was in Russia, yet not in Russia – a fact which caused the sort of diplomatic problems that needed their very own Sherlock to sort out. Which he did in his own, unique way.





	The Adventure Of No Man's Land (1888)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WickedBlackWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedBlackWings/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the case at the Trepoff Monastery in Odessa'.

Sherlock looked at me apologetically, and I groaned inwardly when I realized he was pulling out the kicked puppy eyes again. It had been bad enough that I had a little brother who could do that and and get me to do exactly what he wanted with just a Look, but trust me to end up with another fellow who also had that trait. Someone up there.... but then, I had Sherlock, so it was not all bad.

“What am I about to agree to?” I sighed. 

We had just arrived in Constanţa, the chief port of Rumania (then a much smaller country than it is today), and I had been looking forward to a few days working our way along the coast of the Black Sea to Odessa, followed by a week exploring the Crimea from that port before returning home. For as much as I would have thought it impossible, I was beginning to miss the eternal fog and grime of old London Town. And, of course, our rooms in Baker Street which would allow me to permanently have the man I loved sleeping beside me. Our hotel the night before could not have put us further apart without dispatching one of us to the coal-bunker out the back, and I had got little sleep as a result.

“Bacchus had a telegram waiting for me when we arrived”, he said. “He is doing me a favour to help cover the 'escape' of Captain Feher, and asks if I would hurry to Odessa in order to investigate a rather difficult murder.”

I sighed, but smiled reassuringly at my friend. He was, after all, paying for this whole adventure, and I owed him so much for that and everything else. That and the way his face visibly relaxed when he saw that I was happy with the change in plans. Sherlock always looked so different when he truly smiled. Almost beau.... ethereal.

“Do we have to leave straight away?” I not-whined. He shook his head.

“We have to take two trains to the border with Russia”, he said, “and unfortunately the last one has already gone today. So we have another evening here, plus it will take most of tomorrow to get there.”

I sighed. Another night far too far from my blue-eyed genius.

+~+~+

The next morning, I discovered that for once, Sherlock had been wrong. It took three tortuous days to make the journey to Odessa, mainly because a huge snowstorm blew in off the Black Sea just hours after he had spoken to me about our change of plans, and blocked all the railway lines in eastern Rumania. However, it would take more than a little meteorological irregularity to stop the plans of Mr. Bacchus Holmes. When the snow had not been cleared by the start of the next day, Sherlock told me that his brother had hired a small boat, and that we would be making the journey by sea the day after. I half-wondered if the lounge-lizard had done that deliberately, having used his contacts to discover my dislike of sea-travel. It was indeed a very unpleasant and rough journey, during which I was sick three times, though the boat itself, a small steamer, was pleasant enough. 

Or at least the sides were nice to look down on, as I said goodbye to various meals.

+~+~+

“So we have a murder in Russia”, I observed as our cab juddered away from our hotel in Odessa. And mercifully on some wonderfully solid and unyielding land, even if that choppy and unpleasant wet stuff was still close by. So much for a calm, inland sea.

“Yes and no.”

I looked at him exasperatedly. He stared back at me.

“Sherlock!” I complained (it was not a whine, although an outside observer may, in an uncharitable moment, have deemed it as such). He smiled at me.

“The murder took place in the famous Trepoff Monastery, better known as St. Stephen’s-on-the-Water”, he explained. “It is the huge church that we saw as we drew in to land yesterday – although you may have been busy throwing up at the time” (I scowled at him for that). “It is legally no man’s land; apparently the church founder some six centuries back was promised all the land south of a post at the end of the headland, which then was about a yard of soil. The local ruler severely underestimated the founder's Christian determination; and he and the monks spent years carting tons of stone to create a new spur of land on which the monastery is now built. It is of course an Orthodox shrine, but unusually it contains separate worship areas for members of other faiths.”

“And the murder took place on holy ground?” I asked, aghast.

“Indeed”, Sherlock said. “The Russians are threatening to get involved, which would add a religious dimension to our already complicated relations with them. And as the dead man was a citizen of the Ottoman Empire across those blue waters, they too have an interest.”

“Problems all round, then”, I said.

That moment our cab turned a corner and came in sight of the huge monastery, looming large against the morning horizon of the Black Sea. There was no customs post or anything as we effectively left Russia, and we rumbled over the narrow causeway and up to the door, where an officious-looking guard looked at us as if he would have liked to have turned us away, but knew that (reluctantly) he had to let us in. When the huge oak doors slammed shut behind us, I was hard put to remember that this was a religious establishment, and not a prison.

+~+~+

Abbot Godfrid was a tall, lean fellow in his fifties, with greying hair and pince-nez. I wondered how he felt at us being called in, and whether he would make things easy or difficult. I did not have long before I found out.

“Doctor Watson!” he beamed at me, as if I was an old friend who he had just not seen for a while. I almost stepped back at the over-effusiveness of the greeting before he explained himself. “I have read your latest book, and my friend in England forwards me the “Strand” magazine as soon as it comes out. I am so pleased that you and the great Mr. Holmes have agreed to investigate our, ahem, little problem. I only hope that you can find a solution quickly.”

I nodded, knowing what he meant about the political situation but pleased at my recognition. I caught Sherlock smiling at my reaction, and shot him a quick glare.

“Please tell us everything about what happened”, Sherlock said, as we both took our seats. The Abbot sighed heavily.

“I will get Prior Gustavus to show you the scene of the crime later”, he said, “after we have gone through what little I can tell you. Unfortunately I had just arrived back from a conference in Moscow when it all happened, and was still settling back in. It is a most dreadful situation.”

“I left for the conference two weeks back. Eight days ago, a man calling himself just ‘Mohammed’ came to the Abbey. As you know, we have separate worship areas for other religions, so nothing much was thought about it when he went into the room reserved for Muslims. The four non-Orthodox areas are locked off from the rest of the abbey and each other, so he was not disturbed. However, at the end of the day, he refused to leave. Prior Gustavus was not pleased, but he did not wish to force the issue, so the man was allowed to stay the night.”

“I am surprised that you did not use your soldiers to have him evicted”, I said.

The abbot smiled.

“One of the terms of our being allowed to build in the first place was that the non-Orthodox areas became sanctuaries”, he explained. “That of course became the issue the next day, when the man officially claimed the right of sanctuary. Fortunately we have an Arabic speaker amongst the brotherhood, so his demands were understood, if politically unwelcome. And then he went and got himself murdered!”

I suppressed a smile at the indignation of the abbot, that someone should be so downright inconsiderate as to allow themselves to be done to death on his premises. He continued.

“I should explain at this point that there is an old legend, which we have been very careful to cultivate, that a time long ago, a local official ignored the abbey’s neutrality and tried to break in to seize a prisoner claiming sanctuary inside. He was struck down by lightning the moment that he touched the great door, the Lord not having been overly impressed at his impiety. Our neighbours in Odessa have changed several times since then, but the Russians have always respected our 'borders', and when they wish to talk, they always send a messenger first. One arrived soon after all this trouble broke, so the Prior and I went into town.” 

The abbot’s face turned sour. “It turned out that the man was wanted for abducting a nine-year-old girl and forcing her to go through some sham of a wedding ceremony! That sort of thing is, from what I understand, thought acceptable in their own religion, but of course the girl’s parents, who were Christians…. well, as you will understand, they were some way beyond furious. And, as it turned out, quite influential in political circles, which only made matters worse. Fortunately they had got the girl back, but they were determined to pursue her abductor.”

“Rightly so!” I said firmly.

“The rules of sanctuary bind me more firmly than any laws of man”, the abbot said, sounding almost rueful. “The man had twelve days from his claim being made – I know it is forty in the West, but things are different here - and if he did not leave at that time, then he had to be allowed to leave the country. Of course that is a little difficult here as, technically, there is no country to leave, but the point is that he could not be challenged. I understand that the Ottoman Empire offered to take him away by boat if necessary, and the Russians countered by threatening to blockade the abbey if they tried. The Prior has told me that a Russian ship is now patrolling the seas south of here.”

Sherlock pressed his fingers together.

“Did you return from your conference on time?” he asked. The abbot looked surprised at the question.

“Ahead of time, actually”, he said. “I made a connection that I had expected to miss by one hour, and reached here half a day early as a result. Why? Do you think the killer expected me to still be away?”

“That is possible”, Sherlock mused. “It is notable that the killing happened at the one time that you were away, which I would presume is not a common occurrence. So, to the murder.”

“It was the strangest thing”, the abbot said. “I of course had another meeting with Prior Gustavus and some of the other brothers when we came back from the town. Things were particularly tense as the girl’s family had just come to the abbey to worship, as was their right…..”

“Are they all Orthodox Christians?” Sherlock interrupted. The abbot looked surprised again.

“All except one, her elder brother”, he said. “He is of the Jewish persuasion; I believe that he has married a Jewess. I should add that he is twenty or so years of age; it is quite a large family.”

Sherlock smiled knowingly, though I did not see why.

“About an hour after dinner”, the abbot continued, “the Prior came running into my room, looking quite disturbed. Someone had managed to break into the Muslim worship area and had fatally stabbed our guest. This is a calamity of the first order, gentlemen. If we cannot find out who is responsible, there is every possibility that war may be renewed between Moscow and Constantinople.”

“A dreadful prospect”, I agreed. Sherlock seemed lost in thought.

“Is the room where the man was staying completely secure?” my friend asked.

Was it my imagination, or was there the briefest pause before the abbot answered?

“Yes”, he said. “The only way off the peninsula is via the causeway, and we always have a guard at the door.”

“What rooms adjoin onto where the man was?” Sherlock asked.

“It is the second of the four non-Orthodox rooms”, the abbot explained. “The Jewish room is on the north side, and the Catholic room on the south. And yes, I did think that, Mr. Holmes, particularly with the elder brother Frederick having been in the next room around the time of the murder, but the doors between all four rooms are always kept locked, and only I have the keys.”

“There are no spares?” Sherlock asked.

“One set, but they are kept by the porter and the on-duty guard.” On seeing my confused expression he went on, “it is a double lock; I have two keys that will open it, and they have one each. The guards change, of course, but the porter, Septimus, I would trust with my life.”

“You left your own set in possession of your deputy during your absence, I presume?” Sherlock asked.

The abbot looked decidedly alarmed. 

Yes”, he said warily. “You are not saying.....”

“I am not saying anything yet”, Sherlock cut in. “The dead man presumably had no friends or acquaintances here?”

“An imam from the local mosque came and asked to speak with him”, the abbot said, “and he was of course admitted at the gate, but the man refused to let him into the chamber. As I said, the rules of sanctuary mean that we could not force the issue. I have to say that I was more than a little suspicious of the imam; he asked the prior what would happen if he too claimed sanctuary, but was told that he would not be allowed into the same room as our 'guest'.”

“And there is no other way into this room other than the main door and the connecting doors?”

“None”, the abbot said firmly.

“Is there a window in the room?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, but it opens out directly onto the sea”, the abbot said. "A very long way below on a sheer drop."

Sherlock seemed to think further. I did not like the heavy frown that had appeared on his features.

“I rather think that I should speak with Prior Gustavus”, he said eventually, turning to me. “Doctor, in view of everything that that man must have been through over the last few days, it might be better if I saw him alone. I do not wish to upset him even more, and I feel he may be intimidated if there are two of us.”

I was a little offended at being excluded in this way, and he clearly saw that.

“Perhaps you could stay with the abbot and discuss some of your unwritten cases”, he offered, and I noticed our host's eyes light up at the prospect. “I shall not be long.”

He left before I could object further, and I turned back to our host. At least I could trust him with some of our thus far unpublished cases. After all, he was God's own man.

+~+~+

Sherlock's interview with the prior took longer than I had expected, although the abbot and I were so busy talking that I only noticed how much time had passed when he returned. My friend suggested that we should go and examine the scene of the crime as soon as possible, so we set off. At the door to the room we were met by someone who was obviously Prior Gustavus, a surprisingly young-looking blond fellow who, I observed, was wearing a wedding-band. Once he had gone and we were inside, I commented on this to the abbot, who smiled.

“No, the man is not married”, he said. “His father and brother were killed in the last war against the Ottomans, and it is his father's ring. We do not of course allow married priests, but his sister-in-law does have a young child, and he is excused certain duties to visit her in Odessa from time to time, and help out. She is raising her late husband's daughter by herself, so we do what little we can for her.”

“Very good of you”, Sherlock said. “Now, I have reviewed this case, and I am sure that I know exactly what happened. If we can find sufficient evidence to back up that sequence of events, then a political disaster may be averted. I have two pieces of that evidence to start with.”

He produced from his pocket a large rock and a small round piece of metal that looked rather like a fragment of a bullet, both of which he placed on a table.

“What are these?” the abbot asked, curiously.

“The rock comes from directly below the window over there”, Sherlock said, gesturing to a large bay window. “You will notice that there is a faint scrape of blue paint against one side. A boat has clearly rubbed up against it for some time, and also quite recently, otherwise the sea-tides would have washed it away.”

I gasped.

“The murderer came by sea!” I said. “And the ball?”

“That is typical of bearings used as part of a grappling-hook”, Sherlock explained. “The ball rotates in the device; you can see the marks on it. You will also notice that even though it is broken, part of it is perfectly rounded, which was how I recognized it. The next part is more mundane, I am afraid. We will have to check the furniture in this room for scratch marks. Start with the heaviest items first, please.”

We spent a minute looking before the abbot found something; scratch marks along one leg of the heavy table. 

“They have been polished over”, I observed. “The murderer tried to cover his tracks.”

Sherlock was bent down over by the window, and appeared to be placing something inside an envelope. Once he had finished, he brought it over for us to see.

“It looks like hair”, the abbot said dubiously.

“Hempen fibres”, Sherlock explained. “From a rope. The murderer gained access by getting a rope tied around the table leg, then hoisted themselves into the room that way. I would have expected a wire to the hook, but presumably the attacker feared that it would make more noise.”

“I still do not see how the attacker got in, though”, the abbot objected.

Sherlock looked an him pointedly. There was a short silence.

“Prior Gustavus said that the man was stabbed”, he said eventually. “The victim clearly had reason to fear that _someone_ was out to kill him, otherwise he would not have refused a visit from the local imam, whose own actions suggest that that fear may well have been justified. But the victim did not fear his actual killer. He knew him – or possibly even her - well enough to open the window to them, then to secure the rope to allow them to gain entry, and finally – fatally - to let them get close. It was the last mistake that he ever made.”

“One of his own people?” the abbot gasped. 

“The Ottoman Empire cannot afford another war at this time”, Sherlock pointed out, “and this man may well have dragged them into one. They could not risk it.”

“The Russians will be furious”, I said.

“True, but they will say and do nothing”, Sherlock said. “They will hardly wish to admit that an enemy nation got an assassin into and out of one of their chief ports, totally unobserved, even if Trepoff is not technically Russian soil. No, the whole thing will be brushed under the carpet and quickly forgotten about, probably with a most undiplomatic turn of speed. And all for the best.”

I stared down at a faint red stain that even the efforts of the Abbey's cleaners had been so far unable to erase from the stone floor. All that remained of a kidnapper who had met a just end. I wondered what he had felt as the man – or woman - who he must have thought had come to spirit him away had instead stabbed him to death.

I hoped that it had hurt.

+~+~+

We returned to our hotel in Odessa that evening, after having stopped off to find out times of excursions to the Crimea. 

“I shall not be able to publish this case”, I said a little ruefully. “At least, not for many a year.”

My friend looked at me and smiled.

“Indeed”, he said. “And not for the reasons that you are thinking, my friend.”

I looked at him in surprise.

“What do you mean?” I asked. 

Sherlock went over and locked the door to our room, then came back and sat on his bed. He looked serious.

“I mean all that rigmarole about a murderer coming and going by boat” he said calmly. “I made it all up.”

I stared at him in shock.

“But..... the evidence!” I spluttered.

“That was why I spent so long with Prior Gustavus”, Sherlock explained. “We had to set things up so that it looked convincing, at least enough to make the authorities stop looking for the real murderer.”

“Who is?” I asked eagerly. He looked at me again, and smiled.

“Prior Gustavus, for one.”

I all but fell onto my bed, and it took some time before I could find my voice.

“But he is a monk!” I said feebly.

“He is also uncle to a child similar in age to the girl who was abducted”, Sherlock said gently. “When this monster took advantage of the Abbey's sanctuary rule, the prior took it upon himself to act as an agent of justice. After all, his target would never suspect a man of the cloth, would he?” He paused before adding, “you did not.”

My head swam.

“But... the evidence!” I repeated, as my world view swam before me.

“Anyone can scrape some coloured wood against a rock”, he said, “and scratch a table then polish over it. And plant some rope fibres and half a ball-bearing at the scene of a crime.”

I suddenly spotted a flaw in his logic.

“Aha!” I shouted triumphantly if inelegantly. “When he was stabbed, he would have screamed out. And we know the room next door was occupied by the girl's elder brother. He would have heard!”

Sherlock shook his head sadly.

“You are forgetting that the abbot had been away right up to when this happened”, he said gently. “Prior Gustavus was left in charge of the abbey, and hence had access to the keys. It would have been easy either to have gone into the town and had a copy made. The prior used them to unlock the connecting door to allow the brother in.”

“But he would still have called out”, I objected. 

“The rules of sanctuary meant that the abbey had to provide a minimum supply of food and water to their unwanted 'guest”, Sherlock reminded me. “And I doubt that there were many volunteers for such a task. It was easy for Prior Gustavus to drug the food that he took down, so that the man was only semi-conscious when the girl's brother was admitted. I am sure that, as they gave the victim his quietus, they told him just why they were ridding the world of him. The abbot's early return was annoying, but it did not delay the mills of justice.”

I huffed a laugh.

“What is it?” my friend asked, clearly surprised at my reaction.

“It's just that once again, we seem to be conniving at letting a murderer – two in this case – go free.”

Sherlock moved until he was sitting directly opposite me, and took my hands in his.

“Answer me this, doctor”, he said seriously. “If, years ago, you had found someone doing something like that to someone you loved – what would your reaction have been?”

I didn't even need to think about it. Anyone who had hurt Sherlock – or Sammy - in anything like that way would have needed the services of a funeral director very soon. And as a doctor, I knew several ways of killing that were pretty much undetectable. I nodded.

“You are right”, I said. “Let us hope we can make it through the battlefields of the Crimea without your finding another murder that needs solving!”

+~+~+

As things turned out, we did. Though our return to England across the plains of the Continent was another matter. For on our way home, Sherlock and I would manage to stop a scandal in Bohemia....


End file.
